Disclaimer: No
profit is intended in the writing of this story. Star Trek: Voyager and its
characters are the property of Paramount and Viacom.

Feedback to
odon05@hotmail.com. Archiving is welcome, but please try and contact me first.
Thanks to Meagan for her beta work.

UNIMATRIX ZERO: THE AFTERMATH

The first thing Captain Janeway saw when
she woke up in Voyager's sickbay was the smiling face of the Emergency Medical
Hologram.

"Captain," said the Doctor, pleased that
his medical brilliance had once again produced a last-minute solution to a
crisis. "I have successfully removed most of the Borg implants from yourself,
Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres. I anticipate no long-term effects, and
your neural suppressant has prevented any of the psychological damage we've seen
in other former drones."

"The mission?" croaked Janeway, sitting
up on the biobed. Her scalp itched and she had an incredible craving for a nice
hot mug of coffee. This was the last time she was going to let herself be
assimilated by the Borg! Apparently 'liquid supplements' were irrelevant.
Picard was right; the Borg truly were the essence of evil.

"Commander Chakotay informs me that the
individuality virus has been spread throughout the Borg Collective. He
instructed me to tell you not to worry, he can handle Voyager for a few days."
Janeway swung her legs off the biobed and Doc added significantly. "So I
suggest you get some rest."

"I'm quite fine, Doctor," said Janeway,
striding for the door and promptly stumbling in her unfamiliar shoes. She
looked down...and screamed in sheer horror.

"DOCTOR!"

The Doctor was so startled he dropped
his tricorder. "Captain?"

"WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING IN A SILVER
CATSUIT AND BOOTS WITH FOUR INCH HEELS?"

"The biosuit works as a dermaplastic
graft," replied the Doctor soothingly. "It's to help your skin regenerate. As
for the boots well, fashion is hardly my forte but__"

"For God's sake, you can tell my butt
size in this! I'm not having every horny crewman on Voyager checking out my
physical dimensions!" Janeway looked in a mirror and screamed again. "And what
happened to my hair? I'm BALD!"

"Well don't blame ME," said a miffed
EMH. "The Borg were responsible for that! I didn't see the need to change it.
After all, some of Starfleet's greatest leaders have been bald. Kirk, Picard,
Sisko, and myself of course."

"I want my hair follicles regenerated
IMMEDIATELY! And I want this biosuit removed AT ONCE!" Janeway shouted,
cranking her Glare of Death up to full power.

"We can't do that yet," protested the
Doctor, as he prepared a hypospray of caffeine in a desperate attempt to placate
the frantic captain. "The transporters are off line, and the only way to remove
you from that biosuit is to beam you out of it."

"BEAM me out of it?"

"Yes, and then I'd just have to
spraypaint it on again afterwards. Those grafts shouldn't be removed until your
skin has regenerated, and that can take some time. Seven of Nine is still
wearing hers after three years! Mind you she does have an awful lot of skin to
regenerate. Especially around her...uhm...chest region."

The sickbay doors hissed open and Tuvok
minced through them in his high-heeled boots. "Captain, I fail to see the logic
in wearing this ridiculous form of footwear. Furthermore, this biosuit is
cutting off the circulation to my genitalia."

"Oh Tuvok," said Janeway. "If I ever
let on that it was easy for Seven of Nine, remind me of today." To the Doctor's
alarm the captain reached out to embrace her long-time friend and companion.

"DON'T CAPTAIN YOU'VE STILL GOT SOME OF YOUR BORG IMPL__"

ZZZZZZZZAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The next time Captain Janeway woke up it
was Chakotay's concerned face staring down at her.

"Commander Chakotay," Janeway said
whoozily. "I see the way your pupils dilate when you look at my body. Do you
wish to copulate?"

"She's coming around Doctor," said
Chakotay. "What happened?"

"Two words," replied the Doctor.
"Static discharge."

KLINGON FOREHEAD RIDGES: THE REAL STORY

"It was a time long
ago, the darkest days of the Klingon Empire," said Worf, leaning in so close
over the fire that his beard started to smoulder. "It was called the time of
nOmacH uP."

Alexander listened raptly, his eyes wide.

"The Klingon Gods,
the Pau R's ThatB, controlled all. They refused to allow sufficient
funds so that the Klingons could undergo their sacred macH uP ceremony,
in which the warrior gains his mighty ridges. Our proud warriors had to face
the evil Captain Kirk and his minions with smooth foreheads. The shame so
overwhelmed them they lost in every encounter they had with this human petaQ!"
Worf's eyes shone with fire reflected from his burning beard. "One day it
became too much. The mighty Kahless, the only warrior whose forehead was not
smooth, rose up and destroyed the Gods."

Worf leaned back in
satisfaction. "They were more trouble than they were worth."

"The moral of this
story is: Do not let any greater Pau R's interfere with who you are. If
so they will turn you into a bumbling pu-cha!" The Klingon smiled in
satisfaction over the intense way Alexander was staring at him. It appeared the
boy was interested in the old tales after all. That was good. They contained
valuable lessons which he could use in life...

"I'm...not...going to &#%ing die,"
gasped Seven before she passed out from the pain.

* * * *

B'Elanna Torres staggered into Voyager's
sickbay with the wounded Seven of Nine in her arms. "Activate Mr Grouchy!"

The hologram known to her only as Mr
Grouchy materialised. "Please state what the #%@ is going on."

"Mr Efficient here was gutshot by the
Borg Queen during our attempt to steal the transwarp coil. Mr Flyboy was killed
in the escape. It looks like it was a set-up. One of us...is a Borg."

"That's a load of #%#!" grouched Mr
Grouchy, running a tricorder over Mr Efficient. "Why is it so #(%ing dark in
here? How am I supposed to diagnose a ^#&* patient in these conditions?"

"Take off those dark glasses you stupid
#%#," growled B'Elanna as she paced up and down. "There was no %@)ing way those
tactical cubes could have got there so fast. I know we were set up. One of us
is a #%*ing drone."

"I'm not surprised she's passed out,"
said Mr Grouchy, snapping shut his tricorder. "That wound must hurt like $^#$!
Look Temper, it's all the fault of Mr Coffee. She went nuts and started
phasering everybody."

"Are you referring to me?" They looked
up to see a short redhead leaning against the sickbay doors, calmly sipping from
a mug of coffee. Her jacket was open to reveal a shoulder-holstered phaser.

"Coffee, you #@% psycho!" yelled
B'Elanna. "Why did you have to start shooting those #%#ing drones?"

"You going to bark little doggie, or are
you going to bite my cheek?" sneered Mr Coffee. "I've got a drone in the trunk
of the Delta Flyer who'll answer all our questions. The two of you, go get Mr
Tattoo and the others."

"We do not know of any set-up,"
protested Icheb, as he was tied to a biobed by Mr Coffee. The subspace radio
was playing "Stuck in the Delta Quadrant with you."

"I don't give a #$!^ what you know," Mr
Coffee purred as she poured scalding hot coffee over the drone. "I'm going to
torture you anyway." With a laser scalpel she cut off his auditory node.

Suddenly Mr Coffee went flying backwards
as Mr Efficient emptied her phaser into the maniacal redhead.

"Why did you wait so @$%ing long,
Seven?" yelled Icheb. "The Species 5618 bitch cut off our auditory node! Now
we are inefficient!"

"Your node...is irrelevant," gasped
Seven. "We must...wait until the other...Voyager crewmembers...arrive so we can
assss...ssimilate them."

The doors hissed open and the other
Voyager crewmembers rushed in. Mr Tattoo stared shocked at the dead body of his
friend Mr Coffee. "What the #$%^ happened here?"

"She went nuts and was going to kill the
drone," gasped Seven of Nine.

"What, like this?" said Mr Tattoo
furiously, as he disintegrated Icheb with his phaser. "It looks like Mr Temper
was right. We were set up. Mr Efficient is a Borg! I'm going to waste her
right now."

"No, you're wrong! She's a good kid,"
said B'Elanna, jumping in between Seven and their tattooed commander. "What
proof do you have?"

"You don't need logic when you've got
instinct, Mr Coffee always used to say," said Tattoo, glaring at the Vulcan. "I
never wanted this ##!*ing bimbo on board in the first place. Now get out of my
way, Temper!" He aimed his phaser at the tempestuous half-Klingon.

"@^% you, you $#%ing #%@!" yelled
B'Elanna, pointing her own phaser back. They both fired, wounding each other
fatally.

The sickbay doors burst open and Borg
drones poured in, intoning: "You will be assimilated! Resistance is futile!"

The dying B'Elanna clutched Seven of
Nine in her arms, stroking her beautiful blonde hair. Seven knew that this
woman had given her life to save one insignificant drone - she couldn't lie to
her any longer. "I'm a Borg. We are Borg!"

"The act that you propose," he said,
raising an eyebrow, "is not logical."

"It is entirely logical Ensign," said
Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, his own eyebrows flowing sensuously up and down like
great hairy waves. "You are the only other Vulcan in 40,000 light years."

Vorik's eyebrows fluttered like
butterfly wings as he tried desperately to think his way out of this
predicament. He could see his superior's eyes glowing red from the pon farr
wraith. "May I suggest instead the solution I used to resolve the pon farr.
Lieutenant Torres would, I'm sure, be glad to inflict a severe beating on your
person. Her husband assures me that such activities can in fact be highly
pleasurable."

Tuvok twitched a brow in rollicking
hilarity over Vorik's preposterously illogical suggestion. He reached into one
of Neelix's bowls and brought out a long, knobbly vegetable.

Vorik's eyebrows shot up to the roof in extreme disconcertment.

"I suggest we start with the first stage
of the process. The 'leola root'." Tuvok's eyebrows arched in sexual hunger
and he uttered the words Vorik had most feared from his days at Starfleet
Academy.

"Vorik, bend over."

If you're not familiar with the
1960's British sci-fi/espionage series "The Prisoner" you might not get this.
Don't worry. Most people who saw "The Prisoner" didn't get it either.

THE PRISONER

The tall blonde female walks through
endless grey-metal corridors, all of which look exactly the same. The entire
ship has a surreal atmosphere to it. Doors open automatically without her
touching them. Men and woman in brightly coloured pyjama-like uniforms stride
the decks, but do not speak to each other. The blonde is dressed in a highly
unusual manner herself, a skin-tight silver outfit that covers her from the neck
down.

Going through one door, she finds
herself in an enormous room filled with row upon row of shuttlecraft. Another
room contains hundreds of stasis tubes, full of expendable ensigns.

Entering a small circular room, she
finds herself exiting in a completely different place. Like every other place
on the ship it is spotlessly clean. Sitting across from her is a short redhead
with four pips on her collar, sipping from a mug of coffee.

"I am Number Two," says the redhead.

The blonde raises an eyebrow. "Who's Number One?"

Number Two smirks and flicks a glance
into the corner, where sits a Native American totem pole, a carved wooden man
with a bizarre tattoo marking his intriguing facial structure. "There can be
only one Number One on MY ship!"

"And what ship is that?"

"Voyager."

"Whose side are you on? Are you on the
side of Roddenberry...or the Ratings?"

"That would be telling," replies the
auburn-haired female, her lip curling up in a smirk. "I want
obedience...obedience...obedience..."

Her blonde captive raises her chin in
defiance. "Well you won't get it!"

"By Berman or by Braga we will." She
smiles with an amiability that the blonde doesn't believe for a second. "Now
let's be practical. Your only chance to get out is to give me what I want...and
if you don't give it, I'll take it. It's up to you; think about it. Good day,
Seven."

"What?" asks the blonde, frowning in puzzlement.

"For official purposes, everyone has a
number. Yours is Number Seven of Nine."

"I am not a number," says the blonde in
an icy tone. "I am an individual."

On exciting the corridor, she observes a
large white ball approaching her. "What's that?"

"That's Rover," says a non-descript
ensign. "But we call him Doc."

To the blonde's horror, the non-descript
ensign is dead moments after he has spoken, killed by a rampaging Alien of the
Week.

As the white object comes closer, she
sees it is actually the bald head of a man dressed in the uniform of a Chief
Medical Officer. "Be seeing you," he says in greeting. "Probably in every
second episode from now on. You'll find there's a lot we can offer you here.
Opera, lessons in interpersonal skills, and my skin-tight outfits will ensure
that you have the complete and undivided attention of every man on board the
ship."

The blonde turns and flees in panic
through the door from which she came. The redhead looks up at her from the padd
she is reading.

"I am the new Number Two," she says
coldly. "What can I do for you?"

The blonde gapes in surprise. The
person sitting in the captain's chair looks the same, but has a completely
different personality and hairstyle.

"What am I doing here?" the young woman blurts out.

"Well that's the question isn't it? A
lot of people have been asking that. Some say it's merely a question of
ratings." Number Two studies the blonde in a questioning manner. She remains
tight-lipped.

"Of course, all this could be ended if
you answered one simple question..."

The blonde shivers as Number Two asks
her the one question she'd sworn never to answer.

"Why did Kes resign?"

I was watching my
favourite scene in Star Trek: Insurrection, the one where Picard and Worf
lock onto Data's shuttle while singing a duet from HMS Pinafore, when I
was inspired to write this theme song for the T/7 group Voq Je Bang. All
together now...

A SLASH WRITER

Sung to the music of "A British Tar" by Gilbert and Sullivan (preferably in a Patrick Stewart-type voice).

A slash writer is a soaring soul
A soul that's 7 slash T
Her mailing list
Should be ready to resist
The evil Powers That Be

Her cheeks should blush
And her fingers should type
Her e-mails should flame
And her stories should hype
Her heart should pound
And her screen should glow
And her fanfic should give Paramount a knock-down blow.

Her websites should use Flash with an inborn fire
C/7 with scorn be flung
She should never bow down
To a P/T'ers frown
Or a Paramount lawyer's tongue.

Her Seven should pant
And B'Elanna should growl
Paris must be dumped
And Chakotay should scowl
She should violate canon
And not fear being sued
And this should be her customary attitude.

THE OLFACTORY INCIDENT

"And now," said Neelix in his annoyingly
cheerful fashion. "I'm told that Mr Vulcan has a few words he wants to say to
everyone."

The crew of Voyager waited expectantly
as Lieutenant Commander Tuvok stepped from the corner of the mess hall where, as
usual, he was avoiding mixing with his fellow party-goers.

"I have an announcement to make," he
said, his gaze moving around the assembled company. "I have served with humans
for years, some longer than others..." His gaze alighted on Captain Janeway,
who responded with her usual 'Big Gooey Look'.

"I consider you to be my friends and
valued comrades-in-arms. I have always admired your tenacity and
resourcefulness in adapting to these trying circumstances in which we find
ourselves, stranded many light years from home. Nevertheless after seven years
cooped up in the same ship with you, there is a matter I can no longer keep to
myself."

"You all stink!"

ON THE UNIVERSAL TRANSLATOR

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
has the following to say about the universal translator.

The universal translator (as seen in the
TOS episode 'Metamorphosis') has the size and appearance of a long silver dildo,
and is probably the most implausible thing in the universe. In DS9's 'Little
Green Men' it was apparently small enough to fit inside a Ferengi's ear, but
this would not necessarily require a reduction in size. It is not known in what
part of their body Starfleet officers conceal their universal translators.

The universal translator works by
instantly converting all languages into English (except certain words in the
Klingon vocabulary), while at the same time refracting the visual aspect of the
universe in order to make the communicator's mouth appear to be forming those
very same words.

Now it is so bizarrely improbable that
anything so mind-bogglingly useful could ever be invented that The Powers That
Be have chosen to use this as final and clinching proof of the total irrelevance
of continuity.

The argument goes something like this.

"It is impossible for Voyager to
constantly prevail against the Borg Collective," says Rabid Star Trek Fan.
"When a single cube was enough to wipe out the entire Starfleet armada at Wolf
359."

"But," says Brannon Braga, "one of the
core premises of Star Trek is the existence of the universal translator. If you
accept that, you have to accept that nothing makes sense in the Star Trek
universe anyway, and therefore I can write whatever the hell I want. QED."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that!" says
Rabid Star Trek Fan, and promptly vanishes to write some more fanfiction.

"Oh that was easy," says Braga, and goes
off to have sex with Jeri Ryan while the rest of us gnash our teeth in envy.

Some people have said this argument is a
load of phage-ridden Vidiian kidneys, but that has not stopped Braga from wiping
out what little continuity is left in 'Enterprise'.

Meanwhile the Universal Translator, by
effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and
cultures, will be responsible for putting Women's Lib back several hundred
years, as then the only purpose of T'Pol and Hoshi would be to cover each other
in decontamination gel while being leered at by the rest of the crew.

HOW THE VNP CAME TO BE

In the Enterprise episode 'The Xindi' Dr
Phlox recommends Vulcan neuropressure as a cure for Trip Tucker's insomnia.
Trip (shortly after he's escaped death and his unconscious mating drive is
therefore particularly strong) is sent to T'Pol's quarters, where the attractive
Vulcan takes off her top and encourages him to place his hands on her very sexy body.

How this is supposed to help the man relax I have no idea.

Anyway, was I the only one who thought
this scene ended rather abruptly? It just stops the moment Trip removes his
shirt and turns his back on T'Pol. Where's the significant character
interaction, the moment of revealing insight? It's almost as if a gratuitous
chance to see T'Pol's tits has been inserted into the episode, but would The
Powers That Be ever do such a thing?

My theory is that as we've seen the
origin of other Trek staples in Enterprise (mind melds in 'Fusion',
forcefields in 'Vox Sola', photon torpedoes in 'The Expanse', etc) the scene
contained something similar, but had to be cut for time.

For example...

T'Pol expertly works her fingers over Trip's firm
muscular body, but the human shows no sign of experiencing the intense
inter-species orgasm she'd felt at his hands.

T'POL: I am uncertain as to the
practicality of this exercise. The differences between human and Vulcan
physiology could mean that Swedish full body massage...I mean Vulcan
neuropressure has no effect on your species.

T'POL: T'Pol to Dr Phlox, it appears you
were correct regarding the effectiveness of Vulcan neuropressure. Commander
Tucker is now uncon...asleep.

PHLOX: Excellent Sub-Commander! Perhaps
you can assist me with some other medical problems. I'm sure neuropressure
would be highly effective in curing Lieutenant Reed's Freudian-based depression
over the MACO's having more powerful weapons than he does.

T'POL: I see.

PHLOX: I've also discovered that every
attractive female on this ship has somehow been infected with the notorious
Braga virus. The recommended treatment is to spend once a week in
decontamination rubbing antiseptic gel all over your lithe naked bodies.

T'POL: What a coincidence.

PHLOX: And I've just got the results of
the latest crew psychology assessment. Apparently your new cleavage-revealing
catsuit has improved morale no end. So I'm now redesigning the female Starfleet
uniform into a miniskirt and knee-high boots.

T'POL: Dr Phlox, before you implement
these ideas, I wish to test out a new medical technique I have just developed.
I call it, err...the Vulcan Nerve Pinch.

PHLOX: Sounds intriguing. I can't wait to try it.

T'POL: Neither can I.

ISHMAEL RELOADED (with apologies to Herman Melville)

Call me Email. Some years ago, never
mind how long precisely, having unlimited internet access and nothing particular
to interest me in my social life, I thought I would surf about a little and see
the World Wide Web. Whenever I feel like overdosing on cheap pornography and
lunatic conspiracy theories, whenever I have the urge to read awful fanfiction
and spammed advertisements offering me a larger penis or the opportunity to
invest in dodgy Nigerian businesses; and especially whenever the urge to jab
hypos into my veins get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong
moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the nearest post
office with a couple of Glock 9mm's and methodically knocking people off - then
I account it high time to get connected as soon as I can. This is my substitute
for balls. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon Inspector
Clouseau; I quietly take to the Net. There is nothing surprising in this. If
they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish
very nearly the same feelings towards the Internet with me.

STAR TREK ENTERPRISE: A PORN REVIEW

Legendary cocksman Brannon Braga returns to boldly f**k the fans with his latest Trek
series Enterprise. Despite a promising start in which hunky Connor
Trinneer (as 'Trip' Tucker) and juicy Jolene Blalock (as Vulcan babe T'Pol) rub
decon gel on each other's hot bodies, the first two seasons are just the
standard blow-job by the Big B. Jolene is a disappointment despite her catsuit
which shows off some great T&A, while Anthony Montgomery as Ensign Mayweather
gets surprisingly few oral opportunities. Asian hottie Linda Park (as Hoshi
Sato) moans a lot and puts her skilled tongue to good use, and there's an
all-too-brief topless scene with Dominic Keating, but frankly more girl/girl
action between her and Jolene wouldn't hurt. As usual the male/male sex is
zilch, but if you're into B&D then Scott Bakula delivers plenty as Captain
Archer, who makes first contact with the fists of several alien species (don't
miss the bondage scene in Shadows of P'Jem when the good captain gets a
faceful of Jolene's amazing tits!). Continuity is screwed in Acquisition,
black holes are explored in Singularity (see Hoshi go crazy over carrots
and Trip design the ultimate receptacle for the captain's rear), while T'Pol is
shafted by Vulcan doctors in Stigma and acts like a randy slut in
Bound. John Billingsley lets all 16-inches hang out in A Night in
Sickbay (plus there's more gratuitous decon with Blalock and Bakula) as well
as getting some interspecies loving in Dear Doctor, but things don't
start hotting up until Season 3 when Florida is buggered by a Xindi spaceball!
Archer gets a lot harder, there's the macho MACO's and their big guns, more hot
loving between Trip and T'Pol, some lewd sexpionage with alien whore Rajiin, and
enough bangs to satisfy all! In the last season Trek comes full circle with
Orion slave-sluts from the Original Series, Archer and Trip both have Vulcan
head jobs, Hoshi humps her way to the top in the mirror universe while
Mayweather gets some long-awaited interracial sex in Demons.
Unfortunately (despite the presence of Marina Sirtis' impressive knockers) it
all ends with a disappointing handjob in These Are TheVoyages.
All in all, I rate Star Trek: Enterprise at three and a half porn stars.

THE MISADVENTURES OF SHERIFF ODO

(sung to the theme from 'The Misadventures of Sheriff Lobo')

There is a man the Prophets tell, who morphs all through the night.
But while he slurps he never shirks, or slithers from a fight.
He is Constable Odo, mighty morphin' Odo. Heart of Latinum, Odo. Watch out Quark!
He has no peer, but sheds no tear; in truth he is alone.
He could be near, as cup or chair, or even as your phone!
From the promenade he's never barred; he's always standing tall.
Ferengi's bribe or Klingon's roar, he dares to scorn them all.
He is Constable Odo, mighty morphin' Odo. Heart of Latinum, Odo. Watch out Quark.

ODO: "Move 'em out!"

Watch out Quark. Watch out Quark. Watch out Quark. Watch out Quark...

(A dozen runabouts launch from Deep Space Nine, only to crash into each other due to their cheap Ferengi navigation systems).